


Seated Female Nude With White Sheet

by Blue_Thallium



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:21:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Thallium/pseuds/Blue_Thallium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You tell him he can look, and he does, and you wish you hadn’t insisted he take off his shades. His eyes wander over your body, and right away, you can tell there is something distinctly not-right about the way he is looking at you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seated Female Nude With White Sheet

“What happens after?”

“The universe collapses. Our universe. And I guess you’ll probably merge with yourself. The one in the alpha timeline.”

“Do you think?”

“I guess.”

“I don’t want to die, Dave.”

“Just. Go to sleep.”

You find yourself carding a hand through her hair, lean in, heart fluttering, and press your lips to her forehead. She is paralysed, laid out flat on the sand, exhausted, barely able to lift a hand to wave goodbye.  
You find yourself brushing your lips against hers. Just a brush.

“Goodbye.” She says.

“I’ll see you soon.”

You kiss her. A thread of saliva hangs between you.

 

*

John and Jade let go. John moves to California and writes for a sitcom targeting the lowest-common-denominator (My Robot and Me, you own all five seasons on DVD), and Jade moves half way across the world and travels, and writes travel books about places you’d never dare visit (How to survive in the world’s most Dangerous Jungles/hottest desserts/deepest caves).  
They look toward the future. John writes you regular emails about his latest project (maybe the Network will let me have my own series, I figure this is the idea that’ll finally get me through to the big time, this time next year, this time next year) and Jade sends you long, beautiful, clumsily written letters about whatever it is she’s feeling at the time (Rainstorm on the roof of my tent, reminds me of the way Dave’s old vinyl crackles, I want to see you soon, I’ll come visit one day, the jungle gets a little lonely sometimes).

You and Dave. You live together. You’ve been neck deep in books and Dave took up painting, and drawing, and started taking his camera everywhere. Somewhere along the way, you both sort of stopped talking to other people, and you both stopped shaving as regularly as you should.

You’re hermits. Effectively. Your work is your life and your research (a PHD and an acclaimed book examining Post Modern literature by the age twenty five, you are in high demand for lectures, and small time talk shows about books) dominates your bedroom and what Dave has designated as “your half” of the living room.

He is tentatively spiralling downward, becoming more and more the “artist”. Gradually withdrawing from the rest of the world, and soon, probably you. 

It started with nude models in your apartment, and before long there were hookers masturbating on your kitchen counter (which he always cleans afterward, at least) and he pins his latest drawings to the fridge once he’s done. They’re usually in pencil, mostly line work, on tea stained paper, breasts and buttocks highlighted with white acrylic, genitals in a lurid red gauche (everything he does reeks of Schiele, though he pays more attention to the faces, they’re often shaded quite heavily, especially in his latest works - you’d be tempted to compare him to Klimt).  
You like his work.  
He can tell.  
He won’t read your proper book, but he does like the erotic literature you produced in your late teens, just when you wanted to pull in a little extra money. 

He never gets hard when he’s working with those models. You’ve watched him, watching them, with these sharp, lustless eyes, barely breaking a sweat. You’ve gawped, aroused - if you’re being honest - as you pass from room to room, while Dave has these skinny things in high heels and thigh highs writhing around on your couch. You’d label him completely cunt-struck, a borderline pornographer, were it not for that scientist’s look in his eye as he draws, and the lovely results, of course.

You think he gets off on the drawings more than the girls themselves.

*

“Your first exhibition.” Rose sighs. “You’re nervous, I assume.”

You shrug. “Sorta.” You clear your throat, and go to your studio (formally the spare bedroom, gutted of furniture, now filled with your work) – Rose follows.

“At least you have a few months to prepare.”

“D’you ever read back your latest academic essay thing, and think: literally everything I have done is so shitty, I want to smear myself in gazelle blood, leap into the lion enclosure at the zoo and strap myself to a rock so I can’t change my mind and run away.”

“Of course.”

“I haven’t been thinking enough about the models before I picked them.” You say. She leans forward, arms folded, the lift of her brow says: do go on. “They were too… Sexy. Well, not sexy but. You know what I mean?”

“Too comfortable with their sexuality, perhaps?”

“Yeah.” She always gets you – reads you like one of her books, and you can’t decide if you hate it, or love it. Talking to her is easy, almost too easy. 

“Such as life when you live in a state with legalised prostitution.” She starts thumbing through a stack of wood panels. Working on wood was your thing for a while, but you soon went back to paper. She pulls one out.  
“I like the armpits on this one.” She says. “And the stomach.”

You have an idea. “You should model for me.” You say. 

She pauses, and turns to face you. Cold, not-quite-violet eyes drill a hole in yours. “Are you implying I’m uncomfortable in my own skin, there, Dave.”

“No.” You say. You mean yes. “I just like the way you look, or something, I don’t know.”

“I’m your sister.”

“Exactly.”

*

He grants you the courtesy of a sheet, but he won’t let you cover your breasts. You wrap it around your waist and lower yourself onto the floor. It’s cold.  
You tell him he can look, and he does, and you wish you hadn’t insisted he take off his shades. His eyes wander over your body, and right away, you can tell there is something distinctly not-right about the way he is looking at you. He blinks, as if taken aback, and _averts_ his eyes. He clears his throat.  
He kicks over a pen, and the morning paper turned to the page with the crossword (it’s going to be a long session) and you assume he’s hoping that your boredom with cause you to drop the sheet and do the crossword. He sits on a chair in the centre of the room, a few feet away from you. His equipment is on a small table by his side, and he rests his paper on a wooden block on his lap.

His eyes are not clinical, nor are they alight with the usual artistic interest they display. The look he gets when he has those girls sitting for him, or when he sees a particularly skinny cat.  
He doesn’t draw for a while, just looks. And you roll your eyes.

This is obviously some poor attempt to rile you up – make you feel “confused” and “miserable” and “uncomfortable”.

He starts to draw with a shaking hand, at that. You tell him how lame an attempt this is. (Attempt at what?)

You can’t help but fist the sheet a little tighter at that. Your heart speeds ups. Dave’s throat is flush, and he seems to be making a concerted effort to look at you as little as possible. Your breathing becomes a tad unsteady. He is worrying a scab on his lip, which is fat and red – swollen, because he bites it too much. You’re nervous, disgusted, a little, maybe. Maybe not.  
Fleeting memories of his lips to yours drift into your mind. Though, sometimes you can hardly tell if they’re memories or adolescent fantasies. Hang overs from a silly crush.

Dave is gnawing at the top of his pencil and shifting in his seat, and you remain still, try to steady yourself – your stiffness an act of defiance. That must look even worse. Your blood prickles your skin. His pencil scratches, hollow, on his paper, and you fight to keep still. When he does look at you, it takes far too long, and the look he has is a look you think you know. His eyes are cloudy, but sharp. Focussed on you and focussed on fantasy. You’re fairly sure what you’re looking at is arousal. And that makes you swallow. The rational part of your brain tells you to call and end to this now; the rest wants to see where this goes. Your heart is beating too quickly to have much of an input, and you’re getting a little slick between your legs.

You mean to simply breathe out, but it comes out long and shuddering.

Dave coughs, and drops his wood block on the floor, mutters something about needing to piss. Stomps out of the room, hands thrust into pockets.

You sigh with relief, and you prepare yourself for an earful later. He’ll tell you you shook too much, or complain that you were supposed to look upset. Something like that. Or he’ll know. He’ll tease you for looking too turned on, you won’t hear the end of it, not for months.  
Though, you’d have to be blind not to notice the way Dave was looking at you.  
Mutual sexual attraction between siblings separated during childhood is not an uncommon occurrence, you understand. The psychiatrist in you rather wants to press the issue. And you’re rather afraid that the deviant in you wants to press the issue too. 

He’s been in there a while.  
You warp the sheet around your chest. And before you go to check on Dave, you inspect his sketch.

The results are surprising.

*

A knock at the door.

You stuff your fist into your mouth and carry on pumping at your cock with the other. You’re almost done.  
Who’dathunk you’d get off on your own sister, of all people. Obviously not you, or else you wouldn’t have asked he to shake her tits about for you in the first place.

“Dave, let me in. I’m rather confused by this little display of yours.”

You don’t.

“Dave, for goodness’ sakes.” 

You just keep going. You think about the way her chest was moving, like she was hot for you, when you know for a fact she was probably just shuddering with the cold in that room.

“This sketch is excellent, you know.” She sighs, heavy and low, you bit down on your fist a little harder. You realise you’re jerking off to her voice. 

Part of you feels like this was a long time coming. The bitch always knew just how to get under your skin.

“Your best. Honestly.” That’s it. You’re almost there. Just a little more. “You are the most terrible drama queen.” She kicks the door. You come.  
Semen spatters the tiles of the floor. You wipe your foot through it, hoping your sock picks it up. 

You tuck yourself away, and open the door. She’s only wearing that fucking sheet.

“Are you…” She pauses. “Quite alright?”

“Yeah.”

“What was that before.?” You shrug. You can see her nipples through the thin fabric.

“Awful cold in here.” You say. Her nostrils flicker, that’s it. “Call it my artistic temperament.”

“Hmm.” She fucking knows. You can tell. She fucking knows. “Well. Whatever it was, it was silly.” She shoves your drawing at you. “You’ve never drawn like this before.” And she’s right. It’s good, even you have to admit.

“Never had a decent model.”

“I got the impression you’d gotten frustrated with me.” You shrug again. “Why on earth did you just… storm out, then? Guilt? You thought you were upsetting me?”

“I had to piss.” You remember your shades are in your room. You wish you had them. “You don’t have to psychoanalyse everything.”

“With you, I do.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Dave, but you’re rather difficult, at times. Not putting the maximum amount of thought into some of your, quite frankly, bizarre behaviour can lead to a lot of misinterpretations on the part of the people you’re interacting with.” She sounds angry. “You stormed out a room, red faced, and you come out of here, red faced, and for goodness’ sakes, Dave, there is a spot of _jizz_ on your sweatpants.” Her voice gradually rises in pitch to a tone of genuine panic. 

“So maybe there’s jizz on my sweatpants.” You say.

She twists her mouth, clutches her sheet with one hand, and thumps you square in the chest with the other. She attempts to stomp off, but trips, landing face first. She spills herself out over the floor, and the sheet falls, around her. 

Your eye is drawn to the tattoo at the middle of her back, a lavender rendition of the Light symbol that you dared her to get one afternoon when the two of you had been drinking together all night.  
She dared you to get a tramp stamp. 

Permanently marking your lower back with a pink butterfly perched on a rose was worth it to get a one up on her.

Her back is white, and smooth, blotted with reds and purples and blues. Enough to make you want to get back in to painting. 

“That was stupid.” You say.

“I panicked.” She tells you, rolling out onto her front. She crosses her leg to cover her crotch, but lets her breasts spill out freely. You keep your eyes on the door frame, straight ahead of you.  
“That was quite a sexually aggressive gesture.” She says. “You started out denying anything strange, then you flash me the semen on your sweatpants. Meaning you were masturbating. Over me.”

“That wasn’t intentional.”

“I don’t believe in accidents.”

“So you falling just there. That was on purpose, so you could roll around on the floor with your tits out.”

“I don’t know.”

“Quite a sexually aggressive gesture.”

“Arguably.” She says. She drums her fingers on the floor, and you don’t know if that was a signal to come or not, but you do, and you sit huddled, back propped up against the wall, while you look at your sister’s tits. You look at her looking at the ceiling.

“What are we doing?” You ask.

“I don’t know.” She sighs.

*

Dave’s close proximity makes your skin burn in a way it shouldn’t. You remember him being warm, too warm, always, like a furnace, when you’ve hugged, spent days half drunk, huddled together on the sofa in your underwear watching My Robot and Me and reminiscing about things you should have let go years ago.

You pull yourself up, and sit next to him, propping your back against the wall, huddling your knees to your chest, the stubble on your legs prickling your arms slightly. Four days ago, you shaved. You’d thought about doing it again last night, but you hadn’t. Didn’t want to look like you’d made too uch of an effort.  
Dave slips an arm around your shoulders. You’re freezing cold, like always, and you just want to tuck yourself between his legs and let him wrap his arms around you. But you doubt you’d be satisfied with just that.  
You nuzzle into him, smell him. You know it’s hard to describe people smells, because people smell people and usually it’s difficult to compare – though you know from the time you spent _with_ him that John smells a bit like pepper, and you seem to remember Jade having this permanent doggy sort of smell.  
Dave told you once that you smell like a cat, but that was okay, because cats smell nice. Like clean fur and warmth, and indoors.  
You suppose Dave smells like warmth and indoors, but you suppose that’s because Dave smells like you. But he doesn’t smell like fur.  
In fact, you think he smells faintly of turpentine now, but that’s understandable in his line of work.

You’re asking him to strip all of a sudden, feeling a desire to smell his skin, his bare skin, not the soft arm of his shirt. And, of course, to level the playing field.  
He complies willingly, without a sound, but casting a side along look at you with the same blue eyes you have – drained from their obnoxious, other worldly tones once the game was completed. Dave says his are blue, and yours are violet. But he’s wrong. They’re the same, bar the fact that Dave’s a prettier than yours. Sharper, brighter, somehow. His eyelashes are longer, and darker.  
Dave, in general, is prettier than you. He seems to take after your mother, while you take after Bro. At least you didn’t get stuck with the beaky Strider nose Bro gave to Dave. You have his Jaw, and his cheekbones, and facially you’re rather a handsome woman, where Dave is just pretty. Apart from the nose.  
He pulls off his shirt beside you, and you watch him. He has a profile like a roman coin, and he almost bangs you in the face with a rough elbow that you’ve nagged him to moisturise.

He stands to remove his loose fitting sweatpants, which, with his shirt removed, hang tantalizingly on his sharp hipbones. He’s still toned, though he’s lost a lot of muscle. The “abs” he would brag to a rather doughy John about have all but wasted. He has narrow shoulders, and his chest tapers into a tiny, little waist that exaggerates the width of his hips, and causes him to cut quite an effeminate figure. 

He pulls down his sweatpants, and they drop to the floor soundlessly. He drops down in front of you this time, still huddling, all broken-baby-bird with the few scars that run around his body, and the bones that pop out and make him look oh-so-breakable.  
You’ve quite a full figure, and really it should be you who was warm, because you look warm, with your big, round breasts, and your plump, pink thighs. But you aren’t.

He stares at you. You stare back. And he asks the same question he did before.  
You still don’t know.

Both of you seem to un-huddle yourselves at the same time. His body blooms for you, as he releases his legs from his arms, opening out, inviting you in. You crawl forward and he leans into you. When your lips meet, your knees are stuck together between his spread legs.

It’s quite sad, your kiss. Passionate, certainly. But in a way that doesn’t want to be passionate, and is uncomfortable with its passion. The kind of kisses you’re used to are “nice tits let’s fuck” sort of kisses, so you think this makes a nice change.  
There’s a lot of love in this kiss, and it doesn’t seem to know what to do with itself.

You shift your legs so you’re straddling his thighs, and you run your hands up his back. Hot, fuzzy skin is pliable beneath your fingers, and his muscle and bone his yours to press, and play with and love, as you trace out each bump of his spine. You can feel his muscles jumping at your touch, maybe with excitement, maybe because your fingers are so cold.

He does the same to you, squeezing, grabbing at your flesh, because you suppose he’s not used to it – the womanly kind of fat your figure carries. His hands seem to burn you. He kneads, and needs and feels you, and you let out a shaky sigh against his lips.

You pull back and let his fingers inspect first your stomach, then your chest. He cups your breast, and flicks a thumb over a nipple, an almost childish curiosity spreading over his face as feels the weight of it in his hand, and seems to enjoy the way the flesh spills out over his fingers. He squeezes you, gently, then cranes his neck, and sticks his nose between your breasts, inhaling your smell, and exhaling heavily. His breath is warm and wet on your stomach.

You suppose it must be nice for him to touch, for once, being that all does is look. You’ve always suspected Dave was secretly tactile, from how much he seemed to enjoy your drunk cuddling. He licks a stripe up your chest, and nibbles your collarbone, all the while you’re moaning quietly into his hair, which is soft and feathery and smells like fruity shampoo.

You grab his face with your hands (and even though he’s skinny, he’s so much bigger than you, and your hands are tiny holding his head) and pull his lips to yours.  
You ask him if you think you should. If he’d like to.

Obviously he wants to, and he tells you as much, and you tell him you never want to move from where you are. Because you don’t. Even though your knees hurt, and it’s cold.

But you have to. You decide on your room, because while yours is messy, Dave’s is dirty. It’s sort of an awkward walk, because he’s hard and his legs are shaking, and so are yours.  
You perch on your bed, and retrieve a condom from your bedside table, and soon the mattress dips with Dave’s weight. You open it for him, and pass it to him. He looks at it for a while, as if he’s unsure that it’s real, or that this whole situation is real. 

You take a moment to rearrange yourselves, and you tell him you’d like to be on top. He seems quite happy with the idea, and mumbles something about foreplay. 

You’ve had a good fourteen years of foreplay, and you think it’ just time to damn well get down to it. 

You position yourself over him, and he holds himself in place. You slide onto him, and it burns, more than it should, because you suppose it’s been quite a while, upon reflection. 

It’s strange. Neither of you seems to move at first. He sits up, blunt, bitten fingers digging into your back, and clutching your flesh like a sheet, while you do the same, digging your jagged, gnawed fingernails into his long, narrow back.  
You just sit there, clutching each other. Him inside of you, both of you shivering – lost children, caught together in a storm, grasping each other for warmth.

You start to move, and he bites your shoulder, sinking his teeth into your skin, where you’re sure you’ll be bruised tomorrow.  
He’s throbbing inside of you, and your nerves are burning, everything on fire and too much. Too much certainly for Dave, who comes when you’ve barely had time to start.  
He apologises, while you slide off, and miss the stretch of him. The condom is thrown unceremoniously into the wastepaper basket by your bed, and you quickly find your positions revered. Dave, even when as vulnerable as he had seemed, will not be beaten by you. He grabs you, puts you on your back, and plants a quick kiss on your lips.  
His head is between your thighs before you even have time to make a snarky comment. His tongue works your clit, and he slides three fingers inside you, easily, thrusting shallowly, bent and pressing down where you’re sensitive. Everything is gentle, and considered and kind, and you feel all together lover, while his hair tickles the inside of your thighs

You’re calling his name, a total mess, rushing toward orgasm, only just realised how badly you’d wanted this, and how badly you’d needed him.

You can feel yourself pulsing around his fingers, and he makes a meal of removing them, toying with your over sensitive anatomy – making lewd comments about how he’d never seen you squirm like this before. He comes up to meet your lips, and you bite him nastily on the cheek before kissing him sweetly on the lips. He tastes like you.

*  
“You were right about this drawing.” You say, later. You told her you were going to get some clothes, and she threw you a pair of pyjamas – pink shorts and a yellow string tank top – at you, which you wore, of course. You’re fairly sure the tip of your dick is dangling out the bottom of the shorts.  
Rose is wearing the shirt you dumped earlier.

“I’m a wonderful model.” She says. And she’s right. You might never use another. 

“You’re okay.” 

“You’re okay, too.”

She smiles. Which is weird, because she never smiles properly. You wish you had your camera.

You’ll ask to take pictures next time, because you know there’ll be a next time. There’s something in the air between you. It hangs so thick you could choke on it, and be happy.

You find yourself pulling her into your arms and burying your nose in her hair. Breathing her in, and drowning in her, as she fills your lungs (and your blood, pumping through your heart and up into your brain) and refuses to leave them, even after you breathe out.


End file.
